en
pedestals, painted to resemble marble; Byron stood there, and Goethe and
M. de Canalis. Dauriat was hoping to publish a volume by the last-named
poet, who might see, on his entrance into the shop, the estimation in
which he was held by the trade. Unconsciously Lucien's own self-esteem
began to shrink, and his courage ebbed. He began to see how large a part
this Dauriat would play in his destinies, and waited impatiently for him
to appear.

"Well, children," said a voice, and a short, stout man appeared, with
a puffy face that suggested a Roman pro-consul's visage, mellowed by
an air of good-nature which deceived superficial observers. "Well,
children, here am I, the proprietor of the only weekly paper in the
market, a paper with two thousand subscribers!"

"Old joker! The registered number is seven hundred, and that is over the
mark," said Blondet.

"Twelve thousand, on my sacred word of honor--I said two thousand
for the benefit of the printers and paper-dealers yonder," he added,
lowering his voice, then raising it again. "I thought you had more tact,
my boy," he added.

"Are you going to take any partners?" inquired Finot.

"That depends," said Dauriat. "Will you take a third at forty thousand
francs?"

"It's a bargain, if you will take Emile Blondet here on the staff, and
Claude Vignon, Scribe, Theodore Leclercq, Felicien Vernou, Jay, Jouy,
Lousteau, and----"

"And why not Lucien de Rubempre?" the provincial poet put in boldly.

"----and Nathan," concluded Finot.

"Why not the people out there in the street?" asked Dauriat, scowling
at the author of the _Marguerites_.--"To whom have I the honor of
speaking?" he added, with an insolent glance.

"One moment, Dauriat," said Lousteau. "I have brought this gentleman to
you. Listen to me, while Finot is thinking over your proposals."

Lucien watched this Dauriat, who addressed Finot with the familiar tu,
which even Finot did not permit himself to use in reply; who called the
redoubtable Blondet "my boy," and extended a hand royally to Nathan with
a friendly nod. The provincial poet felt his shirt wet with perspiration
when the formidable sultan looked indifferent and ill pleased.

"Another piece of business, my boy!" exclaimed Dauriat. "Why, I have
eleven hundred manuscripts on hand, as you know! Yes, gentlemen, I have
eleven hundred manuscripts submitted to me at this moment; ask Gabusson.
I shall soon be obliged to start a department to keep account of